lock-up.”

Andrew administered a rousing shake to his captive as he spoke. He was not ill-pleased that the rector should at last see the result of encouraging tramps.

Hitherto Frank had been in a state of puzzled misery, and had scarcely understood what was going on; but when Andrew mentioned the word lock-up, the whole matter was clear to him. Barney had stolen something; that was the meaning of his abrupt departure before daylight.

The rector looked at him pityingly.

“Where is your companion, my boy?” he said.

Frank did not answer; he stood perfectly passive in Andrew’s hands, and cast his eyes on the ground.

“Don’t yer hear his reverence?” shouted the latter in the boy’s ear.

“I dunno,” said Frank faintly.

“You’d better let me run him over to Aylesford and have him locked up, sir,” said Andrew. “He’d find a tongue then.”

Frank raised his frightened blue eyes entreatingly to the rector’s face without speaking; he saw something in the kind rugged features which encouraged him, for with sudden energy he wriggled himself loose from Andrew and threw himself on his knees.

“Don’t let them lock me up, sir,” he sobbed. “I’ve allers bin a honest lad.”

“Was it your companion who broke into this room this morning and stole my inkstand?” pursued the rector.

“I dunno,” repeated Frank. “I didn’t see him steal nuthin’, I was asleep.”

“Would he be likely to do it?”

“I dunno,” said Frank under his breath, deeply conscious that he did know very well.

“Is he your brother?”

“No,” cried Frank with a sudden burst of eloquence, “he’s no kin to me. I’m Frank Darvell’s lad, what lives at Green Highlands. And Parson knows me—and Schoolmaster. And I’ve niver stolen nowt in my life. Don’t ye let ’em lock me up!”

“A likely story!” growled Andrew. “Honest lads don’t go trampin’ round with thieves.”

The rector, whose face had softened at the boy’s appeal, seemed to pull himself together sternly at this remark; he frowned, and said, turning away a little from Frank’s tear-stained face: “I would gladly believe you, my boy, but it is too improbable. As Andrew says, honest boys do not associate with thieves.”

“Ask any of ’em at Danecross, sir,” pleaded poor Frank in despair; “anyone ull tell ye I belong to honest folk.”

“That’s no proof you’re not a thief,” put in the persistent Andrew; “there’s many a rotten apple hangs on a sound tree.”

The rector looked up impatiently.

“Leave the boy alone with me, Andrew,” he said, “I wish to ask him some questions;” and as the man left the room he seated himself in his big leather chair and beckoned Frank to him. “Come here,” he said, “and answer me truthfully.”

Frank stood at his elbow, trembling still in fear of being sent to prison, and yet with a faint hope stealing into his heart.

Bit by bit he sobbed forth his story in answer to the rector’s questions, and finally raising his swollen eyelids to the kind face he said:

“If so be as mother was to know I wur sent to prison it ’ud break her ’art.”

“Tell me,” said the rector, “have your parents lived long at Green Highlands? Are they well-known there?”

“Father, he’s lived there all his life,” said Frank; “and granther, he used to live there too. Father can do a better day’s work nor any man in Danecross,” he added with conscious pride.

“Ah!” said the rector, “it’s a fine thing to be a good workman, and to have earned a good name, isn’t it?”

Frank hung his head.

“But it isn’t done by tramping about the country with bad companions. A good name’s a precious thing, and like all precious things it’s got by trouble and labour. It’s the best thing a father can hand down to his son. When he begins life, men say, ‘He’s Frank Darvell’s son, he comes of a good stock;’ and so the ‘good name’ his father earned is of great use to him. But he can’t live on that; he has to make one of his own too, so that he can hand it on to his sons and daughters and say, ‘There’s my father’s name, I’ve never disgraced it; now it’s your turn to use it well.’ But suppose that the son doesn’t value his father’s good name. Suppose that he chooses an idle good-for-nothing life and his own pleasure, rather than to work hard and live honestly; what happens then? Why, then, men soon leave off trusting him, and say, ‘He’s not the man his father was;’ and so the name of Darvell, which used to be so honoured and respected, comes to be connected with evil things. Then, perhaps too late, the son finds that ‘a good name is more to be desired than great riches, and loving favour rather than silver and gold.’ But he has thrown away the good name and the loving favour too, for he has drifted away from his old friends and companions. He can never get back to where he started from.”

The solemn monotonous voice—for the rector had dropped unconsciously into his sermon tones—and the emphasis on the last words completed Frank’s misery of spirit.

Clasping his hands, he fell on his knees and said imploringly:

“Let me go home, sir. Let me go back. I’d be proper glad to see ’em all again.”

“Whom would you like to see again?” asked the rector kindly.

“There’s mother first,” said Frank, “and father on Sundays, and then Schoolmaster, and Jack Gunn, and little Phoebe Redrup.”

“My little lad,” said the rector, laying his hand on the boy’s shoulder, “you see there’s no place like home. Home, where people know us and love us in spite of our faults. I think you won’t want to run away again?”

“Niver no more,” sobbed Frank.

“And now,” said the rector rising, and reassuming the air of severity which he had quite laid aside during the last part of the interview. “I am going to write to the vicar of Danecross, who is a friend of mine. If I find that what you have told me is true we will say no more about the inkstand, and I will believe that you had no knowledge of the theft. Until then you must be treated as under suspicion, though we will not send you to prison.”

He summoned Andrew, and delivered Frank over to his charge. Disgusted to find that he was not to be “run in” as an example to tramps, from whom his master’s orchard and garden had suffered so frequently, Andrew was determined that his captive should have no chance of escape, and as rigorous a confinement as possible. Frank was therefore locked up in a small harness-room, as the place of greatest security and discomfort; and here he passed the lonely day in much distress of mind, troubled with many fears concerning his late friend and companion Barney.

The rector himself was hardly more at his ease, however, for he would willingly have dispensed with the zeal of his parishioners, who had been scouring the country since daybreak in search of the thief, and kept him in a constant tremor. The good people of Crowhurst seldom had the chance of such an excitement as this unexpected robbery, and though few things would have embarrassed the rector more than a successful end to the chase, he did not dare to check their ardour.

His peaceful solitude was therefore perpetually disturbed throughout the day by the arrival of breathless parties of scouts. He would sally out to the gate to meet them, and ask nervously: “Well, my lads, seen anything of him, eh?” Deep was his inward relief when the day closed in with no news of the thief, for he would have cheerfully sacrificed many silver inkstands rather than have been obliged to deliver the unfortunate Barney into the hands of justice.

Two evenings later than this, the vicar of Danecross stood at the open door of the Darvells’ cottage at Green Highlands, and looked into the room. Mrs Darvell was alone, scrubbing away at her brick